


keep those damn eyes closed

by iamsolarflare



Series: it's a Fallen London/Minecraft Youtube au [6]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Minecraft (Video Game), Redstoner (YourPalRoss)
Genre: (Sort of.), Canon-Typical Violence, Demonic Possession, Gen, anyway ross has been a Jack literally since i discovered That Twist, how the fuck does ao3 not have a redstoner tag, i can't think of any other warnings - wait yes i can, sarc... is a seeker bc it has the same cadence as his name., simplysarc. seekersarc. same difference.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamsolarflare/pseuds/iamsolarflare
Summary: in which: ross is a jack-of-smiles, a seeker of sorts, for a very particular color of the neathbow.
Relationships: None
Series: it's a Fallen London/Minecraft Youtube au [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717144
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	keep those damn eyes closed

**Author's Note:**

> everyone in this au has Fancy London Names so i'm just gonna. have this little disclaimer at the top of every fic.
> 
> characters appearing: Ross "Notjack" Squire (yourpalross) and Sarc (name unchanged). Doc "Sevens" Maddox (docm77) also appears, very briefly.

It's midday in the Forgotten Quarter; somewhere above on the Surface the sun shines, somewhere out at Zee the Dawn breaks. Precious little light shines here, though. Not enough to see in with the eyes of a Londoner.

He doesn't need eyes to see. He shuts his eyes tightly and listens to tip-tap, feet passing by, there's a surge of bright violant beneath his eyelids,  _ NOW, _ he springs forward and the knife bites flesh and he feels death. He doesn't recognize the body. Another passing scholar.

He tilts the knife to the light, shimmering dark red glinting in the gloom.  _ IT IS NOT ENOUGH. IT IS NOT THE RIGHT COLOR. _

No. It isn't. It's only blood, after all. He grimly sets about disposing of the body. It will take two weeks for them to be found. There is just enough of them remaining to make a Tomb-Colonist out of.

It will take another week before they realize, there is a Jack in the Forgotten Quarter. They send the police after him. He paints the flagstones and ruined pillars with a color that is not the right color. It is just red. It is not the right color.

_ THEY ALL RAN LIKE SCARED ANIMALS, DIDN'T THEY? WE ARE IN CONTROL NOW. _ Still the pulses of brightest violant push him to defend his territory. Important people stop trying to defeat him as he slices through,  _ HOW DARE THEY, _ and the quarter is silent. Nothing? Nothing. Nothing…

He waits for someone new to come, by the entrance he has created, violant burning bright beneath his closed eyelids.  _ HERE IS THE NEXT ONE. _

He lunges silently, no roar escaping save for the one yelled against the back of his mind like a crashing wave of violant surge, bright and beautiful,  **_DIE!,_ ** suddenly there's something hooked underneath his arm and then a surge of pain and adrenaline and light as his chosen victim deflects that driving strike into his leg.

He howls in pain. The man,  _ HOW DARE HE FIGHT HOW DARE HE NOT DIE LIKE THE REST OF THEM, _ snickers and plants one foot on his chest, keeping him firmly rooted to the ground.

"First time I've seen a Jack with his eyes closed. And nearly so  _ elegant, _ too."

_ MY NAME IS NOT JACK! _ A new surge of energy courses through him; he pulls the knife away from his flesh and goes to cut through the air,  _ RIP THE UPSTART TO SHREDS, _ and something catches his knife-hand.

"That name doesn't matter to me, friend. The only one that matters is  _ the  _ Name. Now let me through."

_ THE NAME THE NAME THE NAME- _

Ross opens his eyes, blinking in the dim light at the stranger in front of him. Taller than him, maybe still on the short end of the height spectrum though, one wild yellow eye behind a face mask, covered head to toe and bandages and exposed scars and tattoos and markings that blend together and sear the eyes. Markings nearly the color of violant.

He stares at the Seeker, wordless, dead in the water before the sharp blade in the man's sword-hand slits his neck and he falls, bleeding red. Just red. He closes his eyes.

\--

He opens his eyes several days later to a new sight - he is not in the place where he died, but hidden out of sight instead, in a corner behind some dusty and long-abandoned crates. One of the sigils he saw on the Seeker is carved into the cobble-stone in front of him. It burns violant when he closes his eyes.

_ HE KNOWS SOMETHING. DON'T LET HIM GET AWAY. _ No, he doesn't need to be told that, he knows already. He puts his hand over the sigil and it burns; he keeps his hand there a long time, feeling violant sear into his flesh. Here is the color.

_ BUT NOT ENOUGH OF IT _ .

He tracks the Seeker down. It takes a very long time; he hides in polite society, resisting the urge to paint the streets of London a color that is only red. He is not normally a particularly watchful person, but here he does his due. He learns, some people buy ink in violant,  _ RIDICULOUS. THE WRONG MEDIUM, _ and he stakes out seedier shops until he sees someone with similar wild eyes.

...He can't help himself. Their blood paints the flagstones and pools in odd ways and it is  _ almost _ the right color. It is so close to being the hue he sees when he closes his eyes.

He goes through their pockets for loose change and identification. He finds neither, save for a scrap of fabric that looks imported.

_ THE DOCKS. _

He stakes out the docks next, glaring at the lashing zee that is  _ IMPUDENT, THE WRONG COLOR, SOMEDAY THERE WILL BE ENOUGH PAINT TO CHANGE ITS HUE, _ but mostly watching people come and go. He's waiting for someone with wild eyes when he sees  _ two of them _ , two people, arguing with frenzy in their eyes, and one of them is the short, ragged Seeker.

"And you're  _ still _ acting like you can contribute to society  _ now, _ " he sneers, spreading his arms wide. "Just  _ look _ at yourself, Sevens, look at  _ us, _ the scum of society. And you want to be  _ polite? _ Think you can  _ blend in!? _ "

He is so laser-focused on that man, the one with a single gold eye and violant markings, that the other Seeker's words go in one ear and out the other without ever pausing to register in his mind. The  _ important _ person speaks again.

"We are  _ wretched _ folk, the very picture. Give up your hope of  _ aspiring _ to do something. The only thing you can do is make people  _ uncomfortable. _ Make them turn from your path and cross the street.  _ Fear. Loathing. _ Seekers should inspire  _ disgust _ . Stop  _ pretending. _ "

He closes his eyes and listens without listening as the words paint flashes of bright violant against his eyelids. He hears scuffling and reopens them, only to see the man he's been looking for standing over the limp body of the other Seeker, expression cold and glinting as he steps down on one arm and intentionally presses down, harder and harder, until there is a sharp  _ SNAP _ , one that will not heal for several weeks after the other man comes back from the river.

The Seeker turns to leave. He is tracking the man through back alleys even before  _ FOLLOW HIM _ pulses in his mind like a flood. He's a shadow in the wind, a faint flit between places out of sight, undetected as he finds the lodgings (a small, out-of-the-way flat two stories up in an abandoned building) and slips up and into the room that smells faintly of rotten meat. He is there before the Seeker enters the room, in fact, and sits there, idly carving with his knife into the rotting wood.

"You recovered fast," the Seeker says, staring at him. "And, apparently, tracked me down. Are you here for a second match?"

No. No, he is not. Ross ignores the taunt through gritted teeth and gestures with his knife. "Your scars. They're the right color. Not red."

_ HE KNOWS SOMETHING. _

"You know something."

For several long seconds, the Seeker just stares at him, expression blank and inscrutable, and then all of a sudden he bursts into wild laughter. It rings in the room, harsh and mocking and feral, but almost  _ joyful _ at the same time.

"Oh, glory, glory, the  _ irony _ here! A mighty Jack laid low by a humble Seeker, dragged into the  _ mire _ by his own questioning!"

_ HE THINKS TO MOCK YOU.  _ Ross gets to his feet, points the knife at the Seeker, pulses of violant behind his eyes. He could kill this man right now and he is looking for a reason not to. "The color. There is not enough. I need to know where to find it."

_ YOUR NAME IS NOT JACK. _ He takes a breath. "And my name is  _ not _ Jack. It's Ross. Ross Squire."

The Seeker blinks at him, the wild glint fading from his eyes. " _ Well. _ Not Jack indeed." There is something new in his expression. Something strange and scheming and dangerous. He extends a hand. "Sarc. You can stay here if you don't mind the smell."

Ross takes the offered hand. The pulses of violant when he closes his eyes are brighter in color than ever before. The seared sigil burns when he shakes hands. Sarc looks down at his own hand, at the Correspondence symbol burned into it.

His grin is wide and bright and dangerous when he makes eye contact with Ross again.

"A  _ pleasure  _ to make your acquaintance."

**Author's Note:**

> man i fuckin love redstoner i'm so glad M.O.D.S. is back
> 
> fun fact: literally ever since like 2015 i've headcanoned ross as a jack bc it just, like. makes sense given the context of redstoner yanno? also shoutout to me for somehow writing a jack-of-smiles as pov without spoiling what a jack actually is. nice


End file.
